


Exposed

by andthewhales



Category: Walking Dead, Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: M/M, Trans Character, kind of just fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-01-25 15:31:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1653596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andthewhales/pseuds/andthewhales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Rick finds out Daryl is trans (FtM)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When Rick finds out, it’s sudden and unplanned. He bursts into the cell and sees Daryl splayed out on the bunk, blood pouring out of the wound in his shoulder. Hershel had already removed the bloodstained binder and shirt, old man had known what he was since the incident in the woods looking for Sophia. He’d never said anything about it, and Daryl had hoped that no one else would ever have to know.

But here he was, dizzy from blood loss and sick to his stomach at the way Rick’s eyes linger on his body, on the too-soft curve of his breasts. They’re not as big as they once were but there’s no mistaking it. Daryl’s mouth opens but no sound escapes and before he can figure out what the hell to say to somehow make this alright, the doc is ushering Rick back out of the cell so he can treat his patient in privacy.

"Fuck," is what the hunter finally says, too long after the other man is gone. Hershel is stitching him up silently, unbothered by the profanity after enough time spent living with a Dixon. The wound a good three inches of torn skin and muscle, the result of a very sudden and accidental landing on rocky ground. It feels like fire but it doesn't burn near as much as the anxiety roiling in his gut while the words repeat in his head, Rick knows Rick knows Rick knows

"I’d have thought you were too old to be falling out of trees," Hershel comments dryly as he sets the needle down and cuts loose the extra thread.

"That really what you wanna talk about right now?"

"I didn't want to make you uncomfortable."

"I got my tits hanging out in front of you, old man. That’s as uncomfortable as it gets."

Hershel laughs, and if Daryl didn't have such a soft spot for him, he’d have punched the smile off his damn face. Instead he sighs and uses his good arm to reach down to where his binder had been hastily discarded earlier. Hershel stops him with a gentle hand, pulling the fabric from his grasp and placing it out of reach on the top bunk.

"You won’t be able to wear that ‘til it’s healed. The strap will only irritate the stitches."

Daryl growls and tries to argue, but steady hands are already easing him up off the mattress to wrap bandages around his chest and arm. It’s clinical and as far as he knows Hershel doesn't give a damn about what he is. Even so, a warm blush still dusts across his cheeks at the feeling of another person’s hands touching parts of him that he spent most of his time pretending didn't exist.

When they’re finished he stiffly tugs his shirt and vest back on. They feel snug and wrong against his skin and even though he knows it’s probably not as noticeable as it seems, it's more exposed than he wants to feel. Hershel hands him an extra jacket without being asked and Daryl dips his head in thanks.

"For what it’s worth, I don’t think he’ll care. None of them would."

"Guess we’ll find out."

Daryl doesn't have to look far to find him. Rick’s waiting at the top of the stairs, lost in though and staring absently at their family down below. Daryl can hear Beth and Judith babbling at one another, and someone’s banging around in their makeshift kitchen. The noise is enough cover to allow him to get close to Rick before the other man’s gaze snaps up to meet his.

"Alright?" his leader asks, eyes bright with concern. Daryl nods and swallows tightly.

"Just some stitches. Ain't gonna kill me." He waits a beat, but the fear is bubbling in his stomach, building up like bile and he doesn't have the patience to wait for the silence to get awkward, "We gonna talk about it?"

"What, the fact that you needed stitches ‘cause you fell out of a tree?"

It sure as hell wasn't the response he’d been expecting and dammit, this was supposed to be a serious conversation. He shouldn't be smiling, and Rick sure as hell wasn't supposed to be laughing.

"Man, shut up," he growls, trying to turn the smirk down into his usual scowl. "You know that ain't what I meant."

"I know," Rick says, and his smile fades a little. "When I saw you coming through the gate, leaning on Glenn and covered in blood, I was terrified. Because, what if this was it? What if this was the the time something went wrong and you didn't come back from it?"

Rick stood and closed the distance between them, reaching out to clasp Daryl by the back of the neck. He drew him forward until their brows were touching and Rick’s eyes fluttered shut.

"I love you, Daryl. And nothing that’s happened in the last ten minutes has changed that."

Daryl’s eyes squeeze shut, and if he feels the pinpricks of tears forming, he’ll swear up and down it’s from the pain.

"You sure?"

He feels Rick’s grin when lips are pressed against his own.

"Yeah."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl and Rick have a talk.

They do talk about it, eventually. The conversation starts out halting and tentative, and the level of anxious tension in the room is thick enough that Daryl thinks they might both choke on it before they reach any sort of comfortable end. They’re seated on Rick’s bunk, side by side, pressed together hip to shoulder.

Rick asks how long he’s known.

“That you’re…that this is what you are, I mean,” he stumbles, grimacing at his own words and looking anywhere but at Daryl. His avoidance would have sent spikes of panic into the hunter’s gut if it weren’t for the strong hand holding his own, the thumb brushing soothingly against the skin. Rick isn’t upset, he tells himself, he’s just unsure. That’s all.

“Kinda knew when I was growin’ up,” he says hesitantly, unsure of how much he wanted to say, or even how to say it. “Couldn’t do nothin’ about it cuz’a my old man. Got pissed at me just for keepin’ my hair short. Went to see a doctor about it when I was 20.”

Rick nods and shoots him a soft look out of the corner of his eye. His thumb is still tracing circles on the back of Daryl’s hand and he asks, “Merle was okay with it?”

His brother is still a sore spot, even after a year, even after Michonne came home with the Governor’s head. Vengeance didn’t make the pain any easier, it turned out. But the gentle tone in Rick’s voice, the fact that the man understands that it still hurts, makes it easier to answer with a small smile on his face.

“Didn’t give him much of a choice. He tried to get up in my face about it a couple times, ‘til I knocked his ass down for it. Guess that made him realize I meant it, since I ain’t never beat on him like that before.”

Rick grins. “I’d have paid to see that.”

They both laugh a little, quietly, easily, and it isn’t as terrifying as Daryl always thought it would be. Things were different with Rick, they always had been, but the fear of rejection burned hot and unyielding, and Daryl had never felt the need to risk setting this new life on fire until now.

“You really okay with this?”

The other man looks at him then. Just looks. No scoffing or assurances, he doesn’t pull away or push in closer. Just lets his blue eyes pierce into Daryl and waits for the hunter to understand. And try as he might, Daryl can’t find anything to fear in the gaze. He sees trust, given and accepted, and kindness and love, and maybe just the slightest hint of desire that sets a low warmth flooding through his system.

He nods and fights the smile tugging at his mouth, but it’s in vain as soon as he sees Rick’s own lips turn up at the corners. They grin at one another like fools, and Daryl briefly wonders if this is what people meant when they waxed poetic about being in love. He doesn’t know what other name to give to the feeling spreading through every part of his being.

“Does it still bother you?” Rick asks suddenly, “Knowing that things aren’t the way they should be?”

“Yeah,” Daryl speaks evenly, the answer spilling out with ease, “Before shit went down, I made an appointment to talk to a surgeon. Would’a been maybe six months before I could’a gotten it all over and done with. Ain’t gonna happen anymore, and some days that burns something fierce.”

“Jesus.”

“Not like it’ll kill me. But it would’a been nice, you know?”

“Yeah,” Rick drawls out, sounding very much like he didn’t know at all. "Is there anything that would make it easier? That any of us could do?"

Daryl laughs, "Not unless you got an extra pair of balls I don't know about that you wanna donate. 'Sides, I don't want the others knowin'."

He looks back at Rick, hating that he has to worry about what the other man would say. He trusts his leader, but this is different. It was always different and he couldn't afford to be unprepared if Rick decided the rest of their family deserved to know what he was.

"I'm not gonna say anything," Rick assures him. "If they ever learn about it, it'll be from you. And I know it might not mean much, but I don’t think they’s see you any different if you did. I don’t. You know who you are, and so do I. That’s all I care about.”

It’s silent again for a while, both men processing what they’ve heard and said. Rick seems content to stay cozied up against him for as long as possible, and Daryl can’t help but shift further into the welcoming warmth. Christ, Rick’s body was like a furnace. Rick hums contentedly at him and leans in to plant a kiss on his temple. 

“There’s one more thing I want to ask you,” the ex-cop says at length, “and I know that it’s a sensitive topic. Hell, all of this is sensitive. It’s not…you don’t have to answer if you’re uncomfortable.”

“Just shut up and ask,” Daryl grouses, feeling unusually brave in this moment, an unfamiliar sort of certainty settling into place. Rick snorts and nods, eyes wandering again as he searches for the right words.

“Do you want this to be sexual? I get that this isn’t the body you want for yourself, and if being touched only makes it worse, I understand. I don’t want to do that to you. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to touch you.”

Daryl’s face flushes. He’d expected that they’d get around to this eventually, but he still aches with embarrassment and excitement at the idea that Rick wants him like that.

“Dunno. Yeah? Hell, it ain’t like I got experience. Being a tranny fag in backwater Georgia’s not exactly great for getting’ laid.”

Rick clucks his tongue in disapproval at the use of slurs but otherwise doesn’t comment, waiting patiently for Daryl to continue.

“I want it, but I ain’t gonna make any promises ‘bout what’s okay and what’s not.”

“Fine by me. We can test it out, and if there’s anything you don’t like, we can stop. Although, I have to admit, knowing I’ll be the first one to show you how good it can be? That’s incredibly sexy.”

“Fuck off, man,” Daryl growls in an attempt keep a blushing smile off his face. But he doesn’t complain when Rick leans in to kiss him soft and slow, a simple press of lips with only the barest hint of a tongue darting out to taste. It’s not demanding or intimidating or even unfamiliar. It’s just them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been sitting on a second chapter of this for weeks, finally got around to it. Sorry if it's a little rough, I don't have a regular beta reader for edits and whatnot. I have a couple more chapters planned, including sexy times and maybe some conflict. Let me know what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get a little out of hand.

He hadn’t meant to punch Rick. That in itself was worth at least something, Daryl thinks. Every punch he’d ever thrown in his life had been backed with intent. Intent to hurt, to defend, to piss the other guy off. Something, at least. But punching Rick had been a big fucking mistake.

It wasn’t like he’d been afraid. Daryl had stopped flinching away from Rick’s touch months ago, and rarely did so with the others. He found no reason to distrust anyone in his new family anymore, not after everything they’d done for him. And what Rick alone had done for him; Daryl sure as hell had no right to punch the man.

But Jesus, he hadn’t been expecting it. The sudden, almost violent burst of pure pleasure that has burned through him like a California drought fire. Heat pooling in places best left forgotten. Daryl hadn’t even known his neck was so sensitive until Rick had put his mouth all over it. It had been new and strange and wonderful. And terrifying. Daryl had only ever known one way to combat his panic, and old habits were hard to break. 

So he’d fucking punched him.

He'd grabbed Rick by the collar of his shirt and shoved him away, raising a fist to knock him hard across the mouth in the same breath. Rick had reeled from the hit, stumbling back to clutch at his jaw and stare, wide-eyed and confused at his lover. Daryl had immediately regretted it, wanting nothing more than to apologize, find the words to explain what the hell it was about, but stubbornness and embarrassment had frozen his tongue in his mouth.

So he’d stood there speechless, watching Rick as Rick watched him and licked at the blood welling on his split lip, the two of them strangled silent by the tense confusion and uncertainty. Then the ex-cop had just nodded and walked out, throwing out a terse promise to return shortly before he disappeared from sight.

Now Daryl’s nervously pacing the cell, anxiety bubbling in his stomach as he debates leaving before Rick returns. There’s nothing he can think of to explain what had happened, why he’d panicked over something so good. He’d wanted it, damnit, he’d told Rick as much. Before he can puzzle out the reasons for his stupidity, Rick is back, face freshly washed and devoid of blood, although his lip is significantly puffier than it had been before.

Rick offers him a confusingly gentle smile and begins, “I was worried you might have left.”

“Thought about it,” Daryl admits, “might have if you hadn’t been so quick.”

“I’m glad you didn’t. We need to talk.”

Daryl scowls but doesn’t argue. Rick says nothing, and once Daryl realizes the other man is waiting for him to speak first, he crosses his arms over his chest and drops his gaze to the floor.

“M’sorry. Shouldn’ta hit you.”

“I’m fine. What I’m more interested in is why.”

Daryl doesn’t know what to say. He hadn’t expected it, he hadn’t known what to expect, he hadn’t known how to respond. All of it sounds dumb as hell. What would Rick think? Things are complicated enough the way it is, this just makes thing worse.

“Jus’ wasn’t expecting it. The…it felt good. Ain’t had someone make me feel that before,” he sighs. Hell, he never even wanted to feel it, not like this. “Got me spooked, I guess.”

Rick laughs and for a second Daryl wants to punch him again, but then his face is being cradled by gentle hands and the softest, simplest kiss is on his lips.

“We can go slow. Slower. You just need to tell me, preferably with your words. Think you can do that?” There’s amusement in his features and somehow it makes the situation that much more frustrating.

“Shouldn’t have to, though,” he grumbles back, frustrated, “This ain’t gonna work.”

Rick frowns as him and pulls back, but doesn’t take his hands from the hunter’s face. He remains pressed close as he searches for a better answer in the rugged features.

“Daryl, it’s fine, I don’t mind.”

“Well, I do.” He’s angry now, the fear from earlier churning into something worse, and he pulls away from Rick to pace around the cell. “I ain’t gonna waste time playin’ around and screwin’ things up. You don’t deserve that.”

“This isn’t about what I deserve, it’s about what you’re comfortable with.”

Daryl scoffs. He’s not comfortable with anything. It all feels strange, new. Frightening. He’s tense and Rick is too close. Even from all the way across the cell, it’s too close. He never should have started this.

Daryl, you don’t need to push this.”

“You’re the one pushin’ me!” It’s the first time he’s actually yelled since any of this started. He doesn’t like the sound of his own voice like this, doesn’t like the way Rick’s face falls or the familiar feeling in his gut that tells him this was the way it was always going to play out. And he knows it tastes a lie to leave it like this, to throw all the blame into Rick's court when it's his own freakishness that's causing the trouble.

“Daryl.”

“No, Rick.” He snaps, feeling bitter and all sorts of twisted and wrong. “This is done.”

“Daryl, you can’t just leave!”

When he exits the cell, the frustrating swarm of regret and shame are almost enough to choke him. He never should have let Rick kiss him, he never should have told him he wanted to try. And he was a damn fool for thinking it could have ended any other way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long since posting, guys. Writer's block has been a monster lately. Hopefully the next couple chapters will work themselves out quickly. (Also sorry for the shortness, it just seemed like a good ending point.)


	4. Chapter 4

Rick spends a week trying to track him down, but Daryl’s been perfecting his avoidance skills since childhood and it’s hardly even a competition. He moves more quickly, more silently, and he’s been watching his family for years now. He knows their most common moves, where they’re most likely to be found, and he’s a master of keeping away from them when he wants to. At one point Carol almost catches him, trying to pester him about what’s wrong with Rick, but a few sharp corners and a conveniently located Judith are all he needs to avoid that conversation.

Michonne’s the one who corners him, in the end, up against the fences when everyone else is inside for lunch. He doesn’t know her as well, can’t determine her motivations and intentions like he can with the others. She’s family, sure enough, and a good friend, but she keeps her cards close to her chest, almost as close as Daryl does. And honestly, he hadn’t expected her to have any kind of investment in his problems with Rick.

“He won’t leave me alone,” she states simply, when he asks why she cares. “Man’s been following me around looking like a kicked puppy now that his best friend won’t talk to him.”

Daryl glares at her and tries to leave, but she keeps his pace as he stalks the perimeter, clearly unimpressed with the lone wolf persona he’s trying to exude.  
“It’s not my business-”

“Damn right.”

She grabs his arm them, stops him short and turns him fully to face her. They haven’t had much contact before, nothing beyond what’s necessary for combat and survival. So he’s rearing and ready to give her a mouthful of cuss words for crossing that line when the honest concern in her face stops him short.  
“It’s not my business,” Michonne repeats, “but it’s getting there. You’ve got walls, I get that. But after Andrea…”

She stops then, for a minute, her voice catching on emotion. Her jaw tightens and she breathes out through her nose, calming herself before continuing on.  
“After Andrea, it hurts too much to see two people who love each other running scared from one another. She gave me her blessing, told me to stick with this family. And I’m going to. You crazy bastards are all I have, and I’ll be damned if I let two stupid white boys screw themselves over when they could be screwing each other.”

Daryl’s jaw drops, and he knows his face is red all the way to the tips of his ears. The woman wasn’t wrong, but damn, it felt embarrassing as hell to hear it out like that. It felt shameful, wasteful, even. But she didn’t know.

“It ain’t that simple.”

“It is,” she insists, her tone confident and sure. Where did she get off sounding so certain when his insides were nothing but insecure tension? “I don’t care what your problems are, you can fix them. He deserves that much, and so do you.”

She’s wrong. The part of him that’s been hiding in the back of his brain ever since he was a child knows it, knows that there will always be something unwelcome when it comes to him and other people. Once upon a time he’d thought it was something he could change, with surgery or drugs or the right kinds of clothes, but Rick already knows everything. He’s seen, and it had already ruined things between them.

“He doesn’t deserve this. I’m fucked up and it can’t be fixed.”

“Bullshit.”

His head snaps up at that, irritation already building and mutating into anger, but when he looks at her face there’s a grin on her lips. Goddamn it, he was sick of other people always looking like they had all the fucking answers in the world while he was drowning in his own problems. For a moment Daryl considers snapping at her, maybe calling her a bitch, but given the fact that he’s still well within sword-swinging distance, he keeps his mouth shuts and waits for her explanation. 

“I don’t know what problems you two have, but if you’ve survived this long together, they’re worth working through. Trust me. I’ve lost enough people to know.”

He doesn’t respond. Just grinds his teeth and chews on her words. Michonne doesn’t bother waiting for an answer. “If you can’t talk to him, talk to someone. You’ve got family, let them help.”

Daryl imagines for a moment what the conversation with Hershel would look like, and he snorts at the idea. He could never approach the old man with something like this, it would probably give him a heart attack. If nothing else it would be awkward as hell. And the only other person who knows about how fucked up he is, is Rick. There’s no one else. Yet.

The thought strikes him like a blow to the chest. Letting someone else in? Telling them, letting them see what he really is, giving them the chance to turn on him, running the risk of seeing the disgusted looks on their faces. Christ, it sounds like a nightmare. Hershel and Rick already know, and that…  
Well, that wasn’t terrible. They hadn’t lashed out, hadn’t hurt him or thrown him out like he’d feared. Not like his old man had done, or his uncle, or his childhood companions. They kept him around, kept him close despite everything. He’s the one who pushed Rick away. And he’s the one who has to fix it.

Daryl looks back over at Michonne, realizing he’d been lost in his own thoughts for too long, and is relieved to see that the soft smile is still on her face. She nods at him once, seemingly content with his reaction, and turns to leave.

“Hey,” he calls after her, before she can get too far. His thanks are barely loud enough to cross the distance between them, but even so, she raises a hand in understanding before leaving him to continue his walk around the fences.

.....

“Carol, you got a minute?”

His closest friend turns to smile at him, surprise evident in her eyes, and tosses him a wrinkled shirt from the fresh basket of laundry. He catches it and moves to stand beside her at the folding table, awkwardly handling the long-sleeved garment that had seen better days.

“Anything for you, Pookie, although I’m surprised to hear you asking.”

He shrugs and maintains his silence through a handful of shirts and three pairs of socks.

“Got somethin’ to talk to you about. ‘S private, though.” Daryl keeps his voice low even though they’re alone. He won’t talk about it here, but he figures it’s safe enough to at least give her a heads up. She watches him for a moment, studying the tightness in his postures. He tries to act calm, tries to mutely insinuate that there’s no danger, but his own fear has him locked up and he really doesn’t know what she sees when she looks at him. Either way, she nods and they finish the laundry together in companionable silence.

When they’re finished Daryl follows her up to her cell on the second floor and drags the curtain closed behind them. There are candles on the desk, which Carol lights immediately, and Daryl is thankful that they’re not in full daylight. Somehow confession seems easier in the dark.

“Talk when you’re ready.”

He’s not ready. He’ll never be ready, not for this. The chance that she’ll hate him is still ever-present, but he knows he can’t fix things without her. And it’s not just Rick, anymore. It’s the feeling that maybe he should have told her a long time ago. He owed it to her to be honest, to let her in.

“M’transgender,” he blurts out, and although the word still sticks in his mouth, unfamiliar and ill-fitting, it’s like opening a floodgate. Everything spills out after that, explanations and confessions and stories, so much more than he’d told Rick. He tells her things he’s sworn to never say out loud, tells her about the socks he used to stuff down his pants, the scars on his back from when his Pop caught him with gay porn, the lies he told people who had gotten too close in the past. It’s as if he can’t stop, and it’s not until she’s rising up off the bed and walking towards him that he chokes on the words.

“I’m sorry, Carol,” he sobs, and Christ, there are tears in his eyes. Carol’s hands are on his face, swiping away at the wetness on his cheeks and she’s shushing him gently. He falls into her embrace just as easily as he has every time before now.

“It’s okay, Daryl. It’s okay.”

“Didn’t mean to lie to ya,” he sniffles, “was just too much of a pussy to own up to it before.”

“Stop,” she scolds him huffily, “You know I hate that word.”

“Yeah.”

Carol holds him for a long time, longer than strictly necessarily. But from the way she pulls him close he thinks that maybe she needs it just as much as he does. She’s always been comforting, protective, not quite like a mother but more than just a friend. She kisses his temple and says that she loves him, that nothing’s changed, and it’s surprisingly easy to believe her. 

Much later, when they’re both calmed and leaning against one another on the bed, shoulder to hip, she speaks again.

“So you and Rick, huh? Guess that’s why you never took me up on all those offers.”

“Stop.” He groans, and she laughs. He picks at the frayed edges of his shirt and wars with the thoughts in his head.

“Think I might have fucked it up.”

“Probably,” Carol muses, rolling her eyes when Daryl shoves at her with his shoulder. “But we’ll take care of it, Pookie. Don’t worry.


	5. Chapter 5

Finding Rick is easy. There’s always someone keeping tabs on him, whether it’s Hershel or Carol or whoever has Judith at the time. Daryl wonders how the man ever finds time for himself, although he also suspects it might have something to do with Rick’s intimidation factor. That, or the well-deserved respect he'd gained over the years.

Either way, Hershel and Beth point him in the direction of the boiler room, where Rick and Glenn are working on installing a generator they tore out of some industrial building down the road a ways. Daryl thanks them and does his best to ignore the knowing look Hershel gives him as he stomps away.

Rick’s cussing up a storm when Daryl arrives in the basement, apparently having gotten his finger wedged between sharp edges of the machine they’re tampering with. He’s got a cloth held tightly around the abused digit and looks about ready to kick the generator over onto its side.

“Ya alright?” He asks immediately, stepping up to Rick but being careful not to get too far into his space. The older man has to be pissed, or at least hurting still, from how Daryl had been acting.

“I’m fine,” Rick answers lowly, his eyes bright and searching Daryl’s face. “Just stings.”

Daryl doesn’t meet his eyes. He still isn’t ready to, even after a pep talk from Carol. Instead he holds out his hand, silently requesting to see the injury. Rick is still watching him with a piercing gaze, but he acquiesces and lets his damaged hand fall into Daryl’s, palm up.

“I told him not to stick his hand in there,” Glenn grumbles from next to the machine, where he’s still toying at it with a wrench. “It’s the exact same one we had in the apartment I used to live in. I told him I could fix it but he got all huffy and tried to do it himself.”

“Shut up, Glenn.” Rick growls, although there’s no real heat behind the words. Out of the corner of his eye, Daryl catches the smirk on Glenn’s face. 

“Sorry, Mr. Macho Man. I didn’t mean to offend your masculinity.”

Daryl doesn’t even try to hide his snort while he carefully unwraps the cloth from around Rick’s finger. The leader swears again, although he’s not sure if it’s from the pain or because Glenn is still teasing him. After a brief inspection Daryl asserts that the cut isn’t deep, but it’s long enough that Rick was going to feel it every time he grabbed for something.

“Gonna hurt like a bitch for a while. Better clean it out so it don’t get infected.” He rewraps the wound and tries to drop the hand, but Rick quickly tangles their fingers together, holding tight to Daryl.

“You gonna help me with that?”

“With a cut?”

Rick shrugs. “Apparently I can’t manage simple tasks on my own.”

“He really can’t.” Glenn quips, seemingly oblivious to the undertones of their conversation.

“That’s enough from you. We’re done here. You can take care of the rest tomorrow.”

“Sir, yes, sir.” With that, Glenn is out the door, and the two of them are left alone.

It only takes Rick a few seconds to back Daryl up into the wall, crowding him until he can get his arms around the hunter’s waist. Daryl freezes up as he’s embraced so tightly it almost hurts and he can’t find his words until he feels Rick’s breath against the side of this neck. He shivers, remembering the last time they’d been in this position together, before the fight.

“You ain’t still mad, then?”

“No,” is the blessed reply hot against his skin. “I was. But I’m goddamn tired of being angry. And you don’t deserve it.”

“Yeah, I do. I was bein’ stupid. Really fucking stupid.”

“You were,” Rick agrees and they both grin. “But you’re allowed to be. And you can learn from it.”

“I did,” the archer insists, wiggling a bit to get Rick to loosen his grip. Rick pulls away just enough to look Daryl in the eyes and waits for him to continue, patient as ever.

“I talked to Carol. Told her…about, y’know. She didn’t care.”

“Of course she didn’t.”

“Shut up, I’m tryin’ to explain something. She didn’t care, and I don’t either. I don’t care if it’s fucked up. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doin’, but doin’ it with you is better than having nothing with you. So…” Daryl pauses, unsure of how to explain what he wants, still unsure that he even has the right to want, “I trust you. If you say you want to fix it, I believe you. S’long as you know that it ain’t always gonna work.”

Rick grins and leans in to kiss him, gentle and sweet. 

“I do want,” he whispers against Daryl’s mouth. “And I’m gonna consider the fact that you didn’t punch me this time to be a step in the right direction.”

Daryl grumbles and nips at Rick’s lower lip. “Didn’t hit you cuz you kissed me. Hit you cuz you put your mouth all over my neck.”

“Would you rather I put my mouth all over something else?”

Daryl blushes deeply enough that he can feel it on his skin, and he shoves at Rick as the other man laughs.

“You’re a horny fucking pervert, you know that?”

“Only for you,” Rick promises. "Now, come on. I still need you to supervise me while I clean up this embarrassment of an injury."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short update that was long overdue! My apologies and unending thanks to everyone reading this fic. Please let me know what you think, and rest assured that there is smut on the horizon. Maybe also more plot, but no guarantees.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut. A very brief bit of cliffhanger smut. But smut nonetheless.

It takes nine days for Rick to convince Daryl to let him put his mouth somewhere other than his neck. Somewhere much farther south and much more terrifying. Daryl likes to think he could have held out longer if he wasn’t waking up to soaked boxers every goddamn morning, after hours of restless sleep, filthy dreams, and the desperate attempts not to hump the mattress. Or if Rick would just listen when Daryl told him to stop taking his shirt off when he was out farming under the hot sun. The universe is not on his side, though. Never has been. Which is why he finds himself on his back, buck-asss naked, with Rick’s head between his thighs.

Daryl moans way too loudly, hips arching off the bed and pushing harder into Rick's hot, waiting mouth. He feels the man smirk against him before that goddamn tongue was pushing in further, writhing, licking, caressing every bit of him he thought he'd never want to have touched. Rick still has a tight grasp on his wrists, keeping them firmly pinned to the bed as he sucks and teases at Daryl.

“God, Rick. Too much, ‘s too much,” he pleads, his thighs trembling with the effort not to clamp down around his lover’s ears. His hips still jerk up with every flick of the tongue and he’s never felt more conflicted, torn between an aching desperation for more and the terrifying edge of too close, too soon, not yet, oh god.

Rick pulls off with a dirty kiss and Daryl is simultaneously relieved and devastated. He works to get his breathing back under control, wriggling a little against the pressure still covering his wrists. 

"What do you need, Daryl?"

"I- I don't..." He trails off, unsure.

"I can finish you like this," Rick offers in a voice low and deep, his accent thicker that Daryl had ever heard it before. "God, I could do this forever. Getting fuckin' lost in you."  
Daryl whines high and tilts his hips up, silently inviting Rick to do something, anything.

"Or I could fuck you. Fill you up and pound you through the goddamn mattress."

Daryl tenses, and he knows his partner can feel it. The sight quiver in his thighs right where Rick’s chin rests.

"I...it ain't that I don't wanna, Rick. Just-"

"Hey, hey," comes the gentle interruption and Rick lays a soothing kiss over the trembling inside of Daryl’s thigh. He lifts himself from between Daryl's legs and crawls back up to press more soft kisses to the hunter’s lips. "It's fine. We don't have to do that yet. Or ever. Whatever you want, sweetheart."

“I want to,” insists, breathing the promise into Rick’s mouth, “Just not yet.”

Rick grins and pulls back just far enough to look him in the eye, “What do you want then, love? My fingers or my mouth?”

“Yes,” is all Daryl can gasp out and then Rick’s attacking his neck, biting and sucking hard enough to bruise while his fingers trail down. It isn’t long before they’re slipping against him, rubbing hard and sparking a fire that spreads through him so fast it almost hurts. The sounds that escape his mouth should be embarrassing but he can’t find the time to even think about being ashamed when Rick’s cock is hot against his hip and there are filthy words caressing his ear.

“Let go for me, sweetheart. Let me see you come,” Rick urges, rough and low and dangerously sweet. His voice stutters as he ruts against Daryl, fingers still teasing at him and fuck, Daryl is aching for it. “God, you’re so beautiful like this. Love seeing you like this baby, you’re so good.”

Daryl whimpers and his legs squeeze tight at Rick’s sides. Close, he’s so close, just a little bit more. In the back of his mind he registers that he’s begging but the heat consumes him when Rick bites down hard on the tendon in his neck and grinds against him, his fingers, his cock, everything pressing him down into the mattress and it’s too much, god, it’s so fucking good and he breaks.

His body twitches through his orgasm, forcing empty, exhausted grunts past his lips as he rides out the aftershocks. Rick still has his fingers pressed against him, but he’s gentler now, careful not to overstimulate the hunter. The other man is still hard against him, his thrusts shallow and unhurried while he milks Daryl for all he’s worth. With a contented moan Daryl slaps at Rick’s hand and pushes until they’re both laying on their sides, facing one another. 

He reaches for Rick’s erection before a protest can be uttered, his grip strong but the strokes unsteady. He’s never touched someone else, never had his hand on someone’s fucking cock before. And while his limited knowledge would suggest it’s a fairly simple thing, he doesn’t want to fuck this up.

Rick’s loud, uncontrolled moan is all the reassurance he needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm eternally sorry for the delays between chapters. My moments of inspiration are few and far between. But I'm going to try and update more frequently. Just don't hate me if they're short updates.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut Part 2 with a little bit of feels

Rick’s cock is fucking beautiful. It’s long and thick like the ones he’s seen in the magazines he used to hide under his mattress, with a mushroomed head that Daryl couldn’t stop touching. It curved just slightly to the left and flushed a pretty red color when Daryl squeezed the base tight.

“Love your fuckin’ cock,” he groans, his mouth just a few inches from Rick’s, where he can feel the desperate puffs of air as Rick gasps in his grip. Rick moans like a genuine whore, Daryl’s discovered quickly. The archer strokes from base to tip, desperate to hear more of those sounds.

“Baby,” Rick pants, “You’re killing me. You got to give me more than that.”

“More, like what?” Daryl asks, feeling strangely playful. Jesus, sex was bringing out the weirdest things in him. “Ain’t like I know what I’m doing.”

“Want me to show you? God, baby, let me show you?”

“Go right ahead, officer,” Daryl teases, “Or should I call you Farmer Brown now?”

“Don’t ruin the moment.”

Rick takes Daryl’s hand in his own, tightening their shared grip and speeding the up-down slide to intense pace. Rick lets out another wanton moan, flipping a switch on Daryl’s own libido. Christ, it hadn’t even been five minutes since he’d gotten off; he could still feel the slick evidence from his own orgasm between his thighs. But desire continued to burn him from the inside.

“That’s it,” he whispers to Rick, so close now that their lips touch when he speaks. Rick whimpers and begins thrusting up into their joined hands. “That’s it, Rick. C’mon.”

Rick comes with a wrecked sob, spurting hot come all over their knuckles and onto his own lightly-haired stomach. Daryl whimpers at the feeling, his first taste of his lover’s pleasure all over his fingers. He’d done that, he thinks. It was almost euphoric to feel Rick on him like this. He couldn’t help rocking his own hips forward, seeking pressure and Rick, still panting, pulls him closer so Daryl can properly rut against his thigh. His cooling cum smears against Daryl’s skin, making him shudder.

“You need to go again?” Rick asks, peppering his lips with kisses.

“Nah,” the hunter insists, “Just...Just gimme a minute. I’m good.”

“I really wouldn’t mind you getting off on me like this.”

Daryl snorts, “By the time I’m done you’d be ready to go again, and we’d never make it outta this bed.”

“That sounds like the best idea I’ve ever heard,” Rick muses, even as Daryl’s hips stutter to a halt, “and also a generous overestimation of my refractory period.”

They both laugh, and Daryl rolls himself onto his back, away from Rick and the temptation to stay in bed and fuck around with him for hours on end. He considers tossing on a shirt, to hide his chest, but finds he couldn’t care less about staying naked in front of Rick. He couldn’t help the free feeling he got when he was around the leader, the way he felt more real than he ever had before.

“Think you’re spoiling me, man,” He admits softly. Rick grins at him and snuggles close.

“Good.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some friendly interaction with Maggie.

Daryl had always done his own laundry, even before the outbreak. The risk of anyone catching sight of his blood, especially Merle back in the day, had always been to great of a risk. The humiliation alone would have been unbearable. And now, even with Rick and Carol knowing his little secret, Daryl would still rather keep his dirty clothes to himself.

The two of them, his closest family, may have made him feel safer and more secure in who he is, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t still pissed as hell about having to scrub his damn pants of the rust-colored stains. And today is one of those days where he was honestly considering just burning the lot of them, once his fingers start going numb from scrubbing. His mood is sour and he easily scares off the few Woodbury folks nearby who are using one of the water bins to dye old fabrics a bright red. Something about decor and appearances and prettying up the prison. Fucking pussies.

A few other folks wander through the pavilion as he continues his work, but none approach; the Dixon temper is well-known to all by now. Even Rick turns tail at the sight of his tense shoulders and tight-set jaw. Daryl loves him all the more for backing the fuck off and giving him some space without being asked.

Maggie, however, takes one look at him and stalks over like a cat that just found something new to play with. She’s just gotten off her watch shift in the guard tower, rifle still slung over her shoulder. As she approaches he growls and gives his best warning glare.

“Better keep walking ’less you got a death wish.”

“Glenn would avenge me,” she replies with amused confidence. Completely ignoring his rude response, she drops down next to him, making sure to not knock the muzzle of the rifle against the concrete. Daryl can’t help crouching over his soiled clothes protectively, wary of her curious eyes.

“So,” she starts, not even glancing at the fabric soaking in the basin, “what’s got you in a mood? Last week you were practically walking on air and now you’re back to hissing like a wet cat. You’re scaring the children.”

Children. She means the Woodbury folk. Daryl knows Maggie’s had a hard time accepting them into the prison, after what had been done to her in their territory. But he also knows that she walks in her Daddy’s footsteps, and forgiveness is not beneath her. She doesn’t hold it against them that they’re weak and easily led.

“Ain’t my fault they’re soft. They’ll learn,” he tries to grumble, but her calm and pleasant demeanor is rubbing off on him.

“They will,” she agrees, “but until then, it might not be a bad idea to ease up on the infamous Dixon temper.”

Daryl snorts, but can’t hold back the small smile.

“That’s better,” Maggie praises, “Now, you want to tell me what’s got you fussed? Are you and Rick having a lover’s quarrel already?”

Daryl nearly breaks his neck whipping around to stare at her slack-jawed.

“Michonne told me,” she laughs at his shock, “and, uh, Glenn may have seen some stuff down in the boiler room the other day.”

“Goddamn it,” he groans, going red in the face. He’s quiet for a moment, looking Maggie over for any sign of anger or disappointment. “Y’all don’t got a problem with it?”

“Of course not,” she says immediately, as though she’s expecting the question. “Did you think we would?”

He pauses, hands soaking in the water, and debates how to answer. “Might’ve. Before. Never had anyone I would’ve trusted to tell that shit to. But us, you ‘n me ‘n the others, we’re good.”

“We’re family.”

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t mention Merle then, or his old man, both of whom would have beat the shit out of him if they’d ever even guessed Daryl would grow up to be some tranny fairy bedding a cop. He hopes his old man is rolling in his grave, now, though. Fuck him. Fuck blood. Daryl’s got all the family he needs now, at the end of the world.

“So, was it Rick?” Maggie presses, pulling him from his thoughts. “Did he do something? Glenn and I can step in and give him the shovel talk, you know.”

Daryl laughs hard as he drags all the wet clothes up from the tub, plopping them onto the ground unceremoniously, close enough to Maggie to splash her. She grimaces but doesn’t reprimand him.

“Yeah, I’m sure Korea’s gonna cut a real intimidating figure telling Rick off. Nah, he and me are good. I just got my own shit going on.”

“Well, if you need to talk about it, you know where to find me.”

“Thanks,” he says earnestly. “So, uh...are you and Glenn...good, or whatever?”

“Daryl, are you trying to bond with me over boyfriend talk?”

She reaches down to his pile of clothes and grabs a shirt, twisting the fabric to wring out the water. Inside, Daryl’s gut clenches just a bit, but he keeps his fear internal and pointedly does not shove all his pants away from her. He’s just washed them. They’re fine, there’s nothing for her to notice.

“Fuck off, I was just trying to be polite.”

“Well, why don’t you be real polite and ask me about my new belt then?”

Daryl’s brow knits in confusion; Maggie has never been the type to concern herself with clothes or fashion or any of that shit. Beth was the girlier of the two. But upon further inspection of said belt, he lets out a low whistle of surprise and approval.

“Damn, that’s new. Did you make that?”

“I did,” she grins, clearly proud of the new skill, “Jeff in D Block used to make saddles and such before the outbreak. He’s been teaching a handful of us how to make basic gear. Belts, holsters, bags. Carl’s even working on a pair of shoes for Judith."

Well, ain’t that sweet, Daryl thinks to himself. Carl’s always been a good brother. Rick’s been raising him right, even if the man himself may not think so all the time.

“Jeff’s got a few rolls of leather left, some that he’s had since the beginning,” Maggie continues, “But he’s running low. He mentioned asking you about getting some deer hides for tanning but wasn’t too thrilled about the idea of approaching you. I wonder why.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Daryl grouses, “Which one is he?”

“The one that’s always staring at Carol during mealtimes and chews with his mouth open.”

“Goddamn it.” Of course it’s that guy. Daryl already hates him, for exactly both those reasons.

They chatter away pleasantly until his laundry’s all wrung out and loaded back into his carrying basket. There was a clothesline running between two posts on the far side of the pavilion, but Daryl never uses it. He usually hangs his clothes from the top bunk in his cell where no one can go poking around at them. Just in case. Maggie is well aware of this and, without being asked, she hoists his clothes bucket onto her hip. She beckons Daryl to lead the way inside, and he makes no argument, though he’s not sure why she’s bothering.

Her intentions are made clear when they reach the floor the family has been staying on together. She halts outside the cell she shares with Glenn and darts in, still holding his laundry basket. Daryl sees her snatch something from beneath the cot and deposit it on top of his laundry. Exiting the cell, she hands the clothes back to him and promptly turned to walk away, a big shit-eating grin on her face. When he peers down into the basket he sees an unopened box of condoms with a smiley face drawn on the side in red sharpie. He probably should have seen that coming.

**Author's Note:**

> First time posting. Not perfect but I think it turned out alright. Feel free to share your thoughts.


End file.
